5. Goldie
FIVE
GOLDIE
When I left for work in the morning, it was pitch black outside. After a day of teaching, office hours, and time in the lab, it was dark again. I clicked through my emails, hoping that one would come in with an answer that was different from all the others. I only needed one yes. So far, every single request I’d sent to various sports teams around the city had come back a no.
I had the opposite problem to most of my colleagues: they had subjects, but needed the money. The streetcar whined across the city and for the entire ride home, I tried to find contacts for other teams. Maybe there was a coach in another city that would say yes. How far was Buffalo? Could I drive there to do research? Was I not thinking “outside the box”? Could I do this remotely? Was it really important to see my subjects in person?
It was.
Sighing, I clicked onto one of my favorite podcasts, Murderville, two women solving cold cases about people getting limbs chopped off and other gory details, just like every other twenty-five-year-old woman on the planet. The streetlamps flickered as I headed east. When we got close to my street, I tucked my earbuds into my pocket and put on my mittens.
A familiar silhouette outside on the sidewalk caught my eye. I pulled the cord on the streetcar and it slowed to let me out at the next stop. I bounded down the steps and jogged toward my dad and Morton.
“Goldie.” Dad seemed surprised. “I thought you’d be later. Morton told me he wanted to go for a walk in the snow.”
Hearing his name, Morton wagged his tail. I bent to give him a pat and then smacked my mittens together. Dog fur danced in the light between us. “Thanks, Dad.”
“We went all the way down the beach to the lifeguard stand.”
“Oh no. Did you let him off?” I pulled off my mitten and felt Morton’s fur, but other than the snowflakes slowly melting on his back, he wasn’t soaked.
Dad laughed. “No, I learned my lesson last time. There were no midnight skinny-dips for the Mortman.”
He handed the leash to me. “Here, you take him. I’ll carry your bag. It looks heavy.” My father didn’t wait for me to accept; he pulled the backpack off my shoulder and pretended to drop it to the ground. “What do you have in here? Rocks?”
As a kid, I’d collected rocks and my mom had bought me a tumbler to make them all shiny.
“Only a couple.” There was a piece of citrine in the zippered front pocket. Mom said that it would bring prosperity, and even though my scientist mind told me it was malarkey, I liked having it with me. It was pretty, so what was the harm in carrying it around?
Morton lumbered beside us as we walked down the side street. “You know I don’t like you taking public transportation at night.”
I checked my watch. “Dad, it’s six forty-five.”
“We have a double driveway with room for another vehicle. My offer to buy you a car still stands.”
“What about the environment?”
“I’ll buy you an electric one.”
He wasn’t joking. My father was a generous man, but by the time I bought my first car, I wanted it to be with my own money—money that I’d earned from doing something good in the world. “You know that I’m saving up to buy a car for when I move out of the city and the streetcar doesn’t drop me off at the end of the street.”
His lips pressed into a line, but he didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the first time we’d had the car discussion. “How was work today?” He abandoned the subject.
I sighed. “It was okay. I’ve run into a few snags with my study, but I’m sure that I can get it sorted out.”
“What kind of snags?”
My father was the kind of man who liked to fix things. I guess that’s typical of most men, but when it came to my dad, he went overboard. It wasn’t admirable. I knew he was trying to make up for leaving me with Mom when I was a kid. Years of therapy had gotten me over…or rather, taught me how to deal with the feelings that came up from having a dad who couldn’t honor his marriage vows.
Shrugging, I continued walking. “Just the usual stuff.”
“That’s pretty vague.”
The therapist also said my pride and need to do things myself was a form of hyper-independence and wasn’t necessarily a healthy way to live. I disagreed. I was a grown woman and a grown woman didn’t need handouts from her rich daddy, or advice from her flaky tarot-reading mom. Even if I wanted help from Mom, I wouldn’t be able to find her to ask. She was living off the grid somewhere in the mountains, and came to the closest town to make a monthly phone call, which mostly consisted of telling me which planets were in retrogradefantasyland, or whatever. “How was practice today?” I asked, volleying the small talk back to him.
Dad let out a chuckle. The kind that told me he’d had a rough day. “Those Bailey brothers are going to be the death of me.”
It wasn’t the first time he’d talked about the brothers. Now that I knew one of them, I had a hard time picturing Ace as the pain in the ass my dad had been groaning about all season. “Why?”
With a raised eyebrow, he looked at me. “You never ask about the players.”
“Mel wants to know. She met one of them at the dicksicle dunk and—”
“Marigold Swanson.”
My cheeks burned so hot that the snowflakes landing on them could’ve sizzled. “I mean, the Polar Bear Plunge thing.”
“I like the other name better, actually.” He chuckled. “Let me guess, Mel came up with that one?”
I didn’t dare tell him that the person who coined the term was the player causing him so much grief. He’d never explicitly told me that I couldn’t date one of the players, but he didn’t have to. I made it very clear that I would never, ever get with a hockey player.
“Yeah, although the name went through a few iterations before we decided on the…dunk.”
We reached the house and the snowflakes swirled in the light above the door. Morton shoved his nose into the crack of my father’s house. The main building was his. It was the source of people food scraps. “Not tonight, Morty.” I tugged him from the stairs. He let out an audible groan and then settled next to my feet.
“Do you want to come in for dinner? I still have some leftovers.”
“I’m beat.” I made a show of stretching my arms above my head. I was going to spend the night obsessively refreshing my email, hoping that one of my last-ditch hail Mary requests to all the sports teams within a two-hundred-kilometre radius would come through. “Sorry, Dad. We completely got off track. What were you saying about the Bailey brothers?”
Dad paused with his hand on the door lever as though considering whether he wanted to burden me with his work challenges.
“Mel will ask, and I need to give her something.”
My father’s laugh was low and throaty. “Like a dog with a bone, that one.”
At the mention of the b word, Morton grumbled and shifted on his haunches.
Leaning on the doorframe, Dad crossed his arms. “They’re both good players. Actually, they’re both excellent players. But, together, those two are like oil and water. When they’re on the ice at the same time, nothing comes together and to make it even worse, all the other players are on edge. It’s like they’re competing for something, and it doesn’t matter if the rest of the team suffers. I’ve never had such bad energy on the team.”
“Energy?” It was my turn to raise my brows. He sounded like my mom.
“I have to get rid of one of them if I want to save this team.”
Ace.
My heart dropped for a moment and then I remembered that I didn’t care. The connection I’d felt with him was fleeting, and in time, he would only prove to be just like the others. The disappointment I felt was irrational, and the smart part of my mind wanted to punch the dumb part that cared. “Can you do that?” My throat felt a little tight and I hoped that there wasn’t a noticeable change in my voice.
“It’s up to management. It’s my job to try to get them to cooperate and put out this dumpster fire while there’s still time to save the season.”
My father was good at his job, but being the best coach in the league doesn’t matter if your team is in last place. “Do you know why they hate each other so much?”
“There are rumors, but I’ve never heard it from the source, so I won’t repeat it. Especially if this is going to be reported to your friend.”
I smiled. “Good call.”
“But, Goldie, tell her to stay away from them. They’re not good enough… I mean, they’re no good.”
“I’ll pass on the warning.” Dad opened the door and was done with the conversation. “Good night, kiddo.”
“Night, Dad.” Before I went inside for the evening, I threw Morton’s frisbee while I shoveled the walkway to the carriage house. My stomach grumbled as I finished. I knocked the snow off my boots, stepped out of them, and padded to the fridge in my sweaty socks. After pushing around condiments past their expiry date and a plastic tub of half-wilted greens, I opened the junk food cupboard.
My options were to melt some cheese on tortilla chips, or finish off the stale dill pickle chip crumbs. The tortilla chips were salty, but edible. I opted to make the fancier dinner and crunched on a chip as I refreshed my email for the millionth time.
Nothing.
I brushed my hands on the thighs of my jeans and poured Morton a bowl of kibble. My cheese had seen better days and I wondered if I’d be able to cut off the thick layer of green fuzz that had wrapped around what was left of the cheddar brick.
Accepting defeat, I dropped the penicillin experiment into the trash can. Work had blown up my life and left my health and wellness in its rubble. I glanced at my watch, confirming that I could make it to the grocery store before it closed, or order some takeout. I didn’t like either of those options. Instead, I called Morton, and the two of us made the long trek to the main house, and to the leftover Thai food.
As Dad heated up the leftovers, I checked my email one more time. My heart stopped as three new messages popped into my inbox. A glance of the first lines visible on the main screen told me everything I needed to know. The answer across the board was no.
“Shit,” I muttered to the marble countertop as Dad slid a plate in front of me.
“Everything okay?”
Tears blurred my eyes and I swiped at them with the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “I’ll be okay. I’ll figure it out.”
Dad poured a glass of water and set it in front of me. “Enough.”
The resignation letters that I was composing in my mind disappeared with the harshness in his voice. I snapped my attention to his blue eyes.
“If you need help with something, Goldie, ask. There are no medals for suffering. I worked hard as hell to give you everything I never had. It kills me that you won’t fucking take it.” His knuckles were turning white, and I wondered if he was going to pound his fist on the table.
“Dad. It’s f—”
“It’s not fine, Goldie. My daughter, who works harder than anyone I know, is sitting here crying in her red curry. Tell me what’s going on. If I can help you, I will offer it; whether you take it or not will be up to you.”
A tear slid down my cheek.
“Jesus, Goldie. I’m sorry. I’m used to talking to meathead hockey players, not my brilliant daughter.” He pulled me to my feet and wrapped me in his arms. “I’m sorry for yelling.”
“That’s not yelling.” I sniffed into his button-down shirt. “I’ve heard you yell.”
He was known for being one of the toughest coaches in the league. Tough love is what he called it, and when the players were winning, they seemed to appreciate it. When they were losing, I wondered if they hated him.
When I pulled out of his hug, he handed me a tissue. “Goldie, I know that we haven’t always been close, but I want to make up for it.”
His eyes shimmered with tears. Why was I so resistant to letting him make up for the past?
I took a deep breath. “I’m doing a study on concussions.”
“I know.” He smiled. “There’s so much to learn. I should know.” He knocked on his temple. “I’m proud of you. You’re going to help a lot of people.”
That was the point. I wanted to help people. Crying into my rice and giving up wasn’t going to help anyone. “I’ve had a hard time securing people to be a part of my study.”
“Really?” Dad took a bite of his noodles. “Why?”
“Lots of different reasons. Mostly legal ones, I think. That was what the Detroit soccer coach said.”
“Soccer?” Dad’s brow furrowed. “I guess they do hit the ball with their heads, but if you want to study TBI, boxers or hockey players are where it’s at.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“Wait.” He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “You’ve spent all this time looking for subjects for your study, when the whole Toronto Tigers team practices down the street from your school?”
I pushed a piece of chicken around on my plate. “I wasn’t sure if that would be ethically okay for me to study your team.”
Dad looked at me like I was a stranger, and then a smile spread across his face. He opened his arms wide. “Goldie Girl, I’ll clear it with management tomorrow. You’ll have a whole team of guys who have had their bells rung one too many times.”
It couldn’t be this easy. “Dad, I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want people to think that I used my connections to get ahead in life. You know, the whole nepo baby thing.”
“What’s a nepo baby?” Dad slurped a noodle.
“Never mind. It’s not really fair; no one else in my program has a dad that can pull strings like you.”
Dad blotted his mouth with a napkin. “Can you put together a synopsis? This research is important. If a stranger approached me with a kick-ass elevator pitch for your study, I’d go to bat with the executives for them.”
I doubted that was true, but my study would help his players. Giving up and walking away now wouldn’t help anyone. I tapped my finger on the marble countertop as I pondered my options. Excitement had started to brew in my stomach, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. There had to be some kind of implications to the relationship I had to the team members, but Dad was right. The Toronto Tigers were my ideal subject, and if I wanted them, all I had to do was ask.
After a deep breath, I met Dad’s eyes. “I’ll have to clear it with my advisor.” I set down my fork and crossed my fingers. “I’m going to help a lot of people. If you are okay with me studying a couple of your players, it would help me get this study published. My advisor already has peers lined up to review it. All I need is some data.”
“Will it impact their ability to play?”
It was a valid question. “No. I’m just going to be making observations and asking them some questions.”
“Consider it done, Goldie Girl.”
I was usually “kiddo.” Mel was the only one that called me Goldie Girl. I didn’t mind the nickname, but I had only recently noticed that it had rubbed off on other people. Relief flooded my body, bringing with it my appetite. “Thank you, Dad.”
“No. Thank you, kiddo. I’m so happy that I can do something for you. ”
“Me too.” The damn tears were back for both of us. “Thank you.”
He handed me another tissue, and then the two of us finished our leftovers under the ever-watchful eye of Morton. The key to my study had been right in front of me all this time and I had been too stubborn to turn it.
After helping dad clean up, Morton and I returned to the carriage house. That night, I slipped into bed with a renewed sense of excitement. If Dad could convince the team’s management, and if I could get approval from my advisor, I was going to have one damn good research project. I tossed and turned, thinking about all of the possibilities, until it dawned on me. The only guy that had made me think about sex in the past couple of years had potentially just turned into one of my test subjects.